


Cure-All

by trill_gutterbug



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Edward has a bit of a crush that's all, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash If You Squint, Sickfic, don't we all wish Alex McDonald would tend our weary brows w his cool and competent doctorly hands?, which is very valid and relatable of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: Edward soaked two sets of bed linens with sweat before the fever broke.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little & Dr Alexander McDonald
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Cure-All

**Author's Note:**

> It appears I have written something that is both gen and rated G. 😒 Whenever the aliens would like to reunite my brain and body, I'd be much obliged. In the meantime, blaming [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose), of course.

Edward soaked two sets of bed linens with sweat before the fever broke. And not only sweat - sometimes he woke crying from distressed, chaotic dreams, his face and neck wet with bewildered tears. He couldn’t recall his dreams. The fever chilled and roasted him by turns. Piled first with every spare blanket, then casting them aside to lie naked and sweating in his bunk, then crawling beneath the covers again, he passed two days in this manner, and on the third was so exhausted he experienced only the vaguest stirring of embarrassment when the door opened to admit Doctor McDonald. Edward struggled to raise his head, but his brain throbbed and his neck was weak. He mumbled something he intended as a greeting.

“How are you, sir?” asked McDonald, sliding the door shut at his back. The candlelight was low, but still bright to Edward’s sensitive eyes. McDonald’s gentle smile seemed to swim in his weak vision.

“Better,” Edward croaked. It was true, despite everything. He no longer felt like vomiting up every meal he’d ever eaten. His body was exhausted, but not tormented in the fires of hell.

“Excellent, delighted to hear it.” McDonald pulled the stool from beneath Edward’s tiny desk and sat upon it. He withdrew a little round looking glass from his pocket. “Would you mind?” 

Edward obligingly opened his mouth. McDonald had performed this exam every day, making various soothing remarks as he did so that Edward could hardly remember. “Hmm, yes,” said McDonald today, peering into the recesses of Edward’s throat. He put two fingers on Edward’s chin to hold it in place, his thumb on Edward’s cheek. Edward, who had not been touched in a familiar manner while of sound mind in longer than he could recall, was glad he was both lying down and had the excuse of illness to excuse his sudden case of tremors. 

McDonald’s brows stitched, then smoothed. He met Edward’s eyes. Blessedly, the fever excused any unseemly blushing as well. “The swelling appears reduced. Does it still hurt to swallow?”

Edward tested it, winced, and nodded. “Quite a bit,” he croaked.

McDonald made a sympathetic noise, leaning back to return his glass to his pocket. His hand, dry and cool, slid up to feel Edward’s forehead. “The fever too seems lessened. What is your experience of temperature?”

“Steadier."

McDonald pushed the hair off his forehead with a clinical informality. Edward was terribly mortified to consider how sweaty it must be. It occurred to him that he and the cabin must reek abominably. Someone had been kind enough to remove his buckets of effluvia at regular intervals, but the stink must linger, as well as the smell of his sick sweat. Surely McDonald had suffered worse, but embarrassment overcame Edward with a crushing weight. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. There was nothing he could do but apologise. 

“Whatever for?” McDonald’s voice was light with a soft humour. 

“It’s wretched in here,” said Edward. His throat hurt like he’d swallowed nettles. He tried to wet it with spit, but found he possessed none. “The smell…”

“Oh.” McDonald laughed. It was a robust, happy chuckle that cheered Edward’s plugged ears. “Think nothing of it, my boy. Believe me, the berths are much worse. There’s been so much regurgitation aboard this vessel, I might as well have thrown out all my emetics before we set sail.” He frowned around Edward’s little bunk. Usually neat as a pin, it was slovenly now - bedclothes in disarray, books askew on the shelf, the water pitcher smudged with fingerprints. “Although I dare say this bad air isn’t doing you any favours. I’d move you on deck in a moment if it weren’t so damn cold.”

Edward shuddered at the thought. Now that the fever had broken, he had only his weakened constitution to sustain him, and the thought of going out in the frozen air made him despair of ever experiencing the sensation of happiness again. “If - if you think it best…” he began.

McDonald shook his head. “No, no, it’s much too raw. If you can manage a walk later, we’ll have you sit by the hatchway and take the air there.”

Edward nodded, then shut his eyes as his brain throbbed inside his skull. It sickened him to think it might be swollen in there, pressed by bone or even lacerated. He wanted to ask McDonald if serious damage could be done by fevered swelling of the grey matter, but his throat hurt so much he couldn’t bear to attempt another word. He lay still, eyes squeezed tight, trying to master his mortification. What a poor showing he made - limp as a dishrag in his own filth, unable even to account for himself. He hoped dearly Captain Crozier had not been by to check on him in his stupor. 

The sound of trickling water made him crack his eyes. McDonald was pouring from the pitcher into the washbasin. He took a cloth from his waist pocket to soak in the basin. Edward mumbled a protest when McDonald wrung out the cloth and approached him with it. There were loblolly boys for this kind of thing, or stewards. 

“Nonsense.” McDonald had divined Edward’s meaning despite his inability to produce words. “You’re a patient in my care. Believe me, my boy, this is one of the least unpleasant tasks required of me today.” His smile, crooked and sincere, was rivaled in brightness only by the candlelight in his hair and eyes. Edward subsided. He didn’t have the strength to make a better attempt of demurring anyhow. And the cloth felt so good on his sticky, hot skin. McDonald swabbed him thoroughly around the neck and shoulders, then pushed aside the covers and Edward’s stained nightshirt to get him down the sides and beneath the arms, too. Edward lay limp, obediently lifting limbs when instructed. The sensation of sweat leaving him was bliss. He felt a stone lighter by the end. His hair and beard were still an itchy weight, but bearable now. 

McDonald pulled his shirt and blankets aright. The cloth, freshly wetted, touched Edward’s face next. He turned into it with a grateful murmur, too tired to check himself. His eyes had drifted shut again, his heavy head lolling on the pillow. McDonald sponged him clean, making little encouraging sounds as he turned Edward’s chin this way or that. When he was done, his bare fingers touched Edward instead, soft and cool. “Better?”

Edward made an affirmative noise, then governed himself to whisper _thank you_. He was more than ready to sleep again, his exhausted mind already slipping off, but McDonald’s hand continued its gentle ministrations. He smoothed the hair from Edward’s forehead, his fingers stroking back along the pounding curve of Edward’s skull. His thumb rubbed Edward’s aching temple. 

“Sleep, if you can,” he said. “I dare say you’ll be much recovered by tomorrow.” His voice was a soporific to Edward’s already somnolent mind. It seemed to come from a great distance, borne on a gentle tide. It lulled Edward’s taut eardrums. The soreness in his brain was drawn up through the skull by McDonald’s touch; with every firm stroke, a little of his fierce headache abated. Bright red and black spots swam behind his eyelids. He lay down in the surf and let the tide lift him. 

“There’s a lad,” said McDonald’s tender voice, pushing him off the beach. “Rest now.”

Weightless, vacant, Edward drifted away.


End file.
